Acceptance
by ggo85
Summary: Wilson tries to deal with life, with work, with House, with everything. Rated T for strong language only no slash. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Denial

Rating: Strong PG-13 (no slash) for adult themes and extensive foul language, at times.

Summary: Wilson tries to deal.

Spoilers: Pretty much all of S3. Set generally around the time of _Half-Wit_.

Disclaimer: If I owned House and Wilson, I'd be a TPTB and all my plot ideas would become reality. Sadly, 'tis not to be.

Notes: Thanks to Housepiglet for another great beta!

Part 1 -- _Denial_

House comes to him in the early afternoon. Wilson's with a patient, explaining the treatment plan for the man's non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. Yes, the cancer will eventually kill him. But there are treatment regimens that will make him sick at times, fine most of the time, and can give him long remissions and a good quality of life for up to a decade.

House is impatient, standing on the balcony and tossing pebbles against the glass door until he leaves his patient and comes outside.

"Is it an emergency?" he asks, irritated that House always thinks it's okay to interrupt _his_ patient conferences.

"Yes," House replies.

To House, being in pain is always an emergency.

House needs – wants – a Vicodin scrip. Again. A quick mental review tells Wilson that only eight days have passed on a prescription that should have lasted House at least twice that long.

"The pain's worse than usual," House tells him.

"Of course it is." Or, it's simply the excuse House has decided to use today.

Wilson's spent his entire day with patients in pain; his morning started with a corporate executive with metastasized breast cancer who needs a fentanyl patch in order to function; he's just come from the room of a child screaming with the agony of terminal cancer and nothing he's tried short of knocking her out seems to help. The patient currently sitting in his office waiting for him to come back from this rendezvous with House is facing at least six months of debilitating chemo – at age 70. It's not that Wilson doesn't believe House's pain, only that, today, House is simply the next person in a long line of people needing him to ease their pain and right now he's not sure he can do it. For any of them.

But he pulls out his prescription pad anyway, takes a pen from his pocket protector, and writes the scrip. As he always does. Trusty old Wilson. Of course, he usually ties a new scrip to a discussion about cutting back on the Vicodin, considering some other drug, thinking about seeing a pain management specialist, or even trying some outpatient rehab.

Today, he hasn't the energy. He's tired of arguing, tired of fighting, tired of begging House to rely on something to relieve his pain other than powerful narcotics that are losing their effectiveness while doing irreparable damage to his liver. Tired of closing his eyes to what is happening to his friend, and especially tired of berating himself for being the cause.

Prescription written, no questions asked. It's easier that way. Vicodin, 10 mg, he scribbles in the big blank space in the middle of the form. The scrawl that is James E. Wilson overflows the signature line, his recently-reinstated DEA number printed somewhat neatly in the top right corner. Sometimes, he feels like simply writing "ditto" on each form. Ditto, ditto, ditto. He's lost count of the scrips he's written and the pills that have made their way into House's system and the damage they've already done.

He hands House the prescription without another word and trudges back into his office, back to Mr. Lionel and his NHL diagnosis. Back to telling people they're going to die, which in a bizarre way, makes him less depressed than the few words he's just scribbled on a tiny piece of paper.

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Thank goodness this day is over, he thinks that evening as he stuffs his briefcase with two new medical journals, a copy of his draft PowerPoint presentation on the oncology department budget, and a study protocol for a clinical trial that one of his residents wants PPTH to join. He either reads it here or at home – or rather the miserable excuse of a hotel that he calls his home.

He really needs to get an apartment or a condo, but the hotel is easy. Only one bill to pay – no utilities, phone, cable TV. Clean sheets and towels – no worries about decorating, colors, or coordination. Someone cleans the bathroom and vacuums every single day. He even gets free little bottles of shampoo and conditioner and hand cream, which he rarely uses.

The thought of looking through newspapers, Craig's List, apartment guides and the like, the thought of visiting one cookie-cutter place after another trying to decide which one looks most inviting so he can move in his stuff and buy more stuff to fill the emptiness overwhelms him. So, he puts it off and stays at the hotel and calls it his home, even though it's more expensive and less comfortable than a real home of his own.

When he hears the knock on his office door, for a minute he considers pretending he's already gone, so whoever it is will go away and let him escape from this office, this hospital, and this day in peace. Instead, he acknowledges the knock, because that's who is he and that's what he does.

Jack Nelson, one of his second-year residents, wants to talk with him.

"Is this a good time?" Nelson asks.

"Of course," he replies automatically even though it really isn't, and unobtrusively sets his overflowing briefcase on the floor behind his desk where Nelson can't see it, can't see that he was halfway out the door.

"Mrs. Rogers died this afternoon," Nelson tells him.

He knows this, of course. He gets notified any time a patient on his service dies, which means he gets a lot of notifications. Emma Rogers isn't his patient but has been a patient of the PPTH oncology department for over a decade, well before Wilson came to the hospital. And, through all of those years, she's been a favorite of doctors and staff basically because she's a nice lady. Or was.

The colon cancer finally caught up with her. Mercifully, her condition was fairly good until the last few weeks when the cancer metastasized to her brain and liver and lungs. But even then, they kept her on strong pain meds so she didn't suffer. Too much.

Nelson gives him the grim details of her final hours. Wilson listens patiently, even though he's all too familiar with the story. Whether it's Mrs. Rogers, or Mr. Rogers, or even Miss Piggy, the story of end-stage metastasized cancer is invariably the same. He's heard it, seen, it, experienced it, fought it too many times.

The resident continues about how her death affected him, how gut-wrenching it was, how he's not sure he's cut out for oncology, blah, blah, blah. Normally, Wilson is sympathetic. Tonight, he's pissed at House and depressed about his upcoming night alone at the hotel. So, he half listens, thinking about opening a new bottle of old scotch, sitting on the sofa with his feet on the cookie-cutter coffee table, and watching some mindless reality show featuring people who clearly have too much time on their hands. Still, he's careful to interject appropriately in Nelson's story.

"Yes, I know how difficult oncology can be," he says.

"You have to think of the extra weeks we gave her, so she could spend quality time with her family" he says.

Blah, blah, blah. It's not that he doesn't care, only that he hears this confession at least a few times every year. If it's not a doctor, it's one of the oncology nurses or techs. They all come to him as if he can change reality, as if he can somehow turn this specialty into one where everyone gets better, everyone lives and everyone is happy. Like it's his fault that patients with cancer often die and that, ergo, people treating cancer patients have to deal with people dying.

There's nothing he can do for Nelson or for the parade of others that pass through his office with the same issues. You can either deal with the reality that is oncology or you can't. Some can't, and even Boy Wonder James Evan Wilson can't change that. Hell, some days, even he has trouble dealing with it. To whom should he complain?

"Yes," he says, he'll understand if Nelson decides oncology isn't for him. No, it won't affect his future in medicine; many residents end up changing specialties and there's no disgrace in not being able to handle oncology. Blah, blah, blah. He really wants that drink now.

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Wilson stares down at the glass cradled between his hands. Scotch on the rocks. A double, actually. At this point, there isn't much left in the glass but the rocks. He motions the bartender for another.

It's pathetic that he's in a bar on a weeknight. Even worse, that he's alone in a bar on a weeknight. Of course, his life right now is pathetic, so coming alone to a bar on a worknight is par for the course. He takes a gulp of his drink for Mrs. Rogers, and one for Mr. Lionel, and another for Marissa, the six-year-old who died of brain cancer just after lunch, and one for Jack Nelson, the resident who can't decide if he wants to end up like James Wilson.

To the outside world, James E. Wilson, MD, is a stunning success. A specialist in oncology, considered among the most technically difficult fields in medicine. Head of a department at a major teaching hospital. Published in JAMA, NEJM, JCO, and other peer-reviewed medical journals. Lead investigator for six major clinical trials. He's already accomplished more by age 40 than many in his profession will manage in their entire careers.

And he's done it all while remaining popular with nurses, patients, and fellow doctors. Everyone likes Dr. Wilson. In fact, if PPTH were to run a "most popular staff member contest," Wilson would probably receive nearly all the votes – other than those who hate Greg House enough to vote against him solely because he calls the man a friend.

Even his ex-wives like him, or at least they still speak to him, which is more than most ex-husbands can say. Three. He's also been married and divorced more times than most men manage in a lifetime. Then again, if he had a wife, he'd be home right now sitting at the dinner table talking over his day with her and a nice bottle of wine and wouldn't be sitting alone in this smoke-infested bar, working on his third double scotch.

He ought to have a wife and he ought to have a home, not some extend-a-stay hotel pretending to be a home, complete with a fireplace he never uses and a microwave he uses too often. Every night, he walks down the hotel corridor, smelling the meals being cooked in the kitchenettes by the businessmen eking out a miserable existence until they can return home to their wives and children. Their prison is his home and the thought of returning to it tonight makes him order his fourth scotch.

Drinking alone is stupid which is why he rarely does it. Usually, if he drinks, he drinks with House. Tonight, House is the last person he wants to be around. When he thinks of House these days, he thinks of the Vicodin scrips that he's still writing, still writing even after the disaster that was Detective Tritter. Yeah, he's still writing scrips even after he almost lost his money, his license, his job, his reputation, and even his freedom. Is he doing it for House or for himself?

And, in the dark of night in an empty bar, he wonders if the scrips are the price of friendship with House and whether that's too high a price to pay. The mere thought of House downing another Vicodin bearing the prescription of one James E. Wilson, makes him swallow a large gulp of scotch.

"You look like you just lost your best friend."

He turns toward the voice. A moment ago, the barstool next to him had been empty. Now, the seat is filled with a buxom blonde. Mid-thirties, trying to look a decade younger, he decides. Breasts not real, hair not naturally blonde, T-shirt and jeans just a tad too tight, makeup slightly overdone. Eyes are a true green, maybe helped along by some tinted contacts. Still, not bad for a lonely guy who ought to be drinking with a friend.

"Lost?" he answers her question. "Yeah, I guess you could say that he's lost." His hands hug the glass of scotch even tighter.

"I'm sorry," she says, in a tone that suggests she means it.

"It's okay," in a tone that suggests he doesn't.

"I'm Candy."

Wilson smiles at the thought of the jokes House would make upon hearing that name. Then, just as quickly, his smile disappears. He's here to forget House.

He should go home and sleep off the hangover he knows is on the way and definitely shouldn't have that next drink. Instead, he makes mindless small talk with Candy, the kind of stuff you only say to someone you meet at a bar and never expect to see again. He buys her a drink – white wine spritzer – and orders himself another. Scotch. Double. "I'm James," he says.

"Haven't I seen you here before?" Candy says, sipping from her glass, leaving a bright red lipstick stain on the rim, and he tries to figure out whether it's a pickup line or a question.

Wilson flicks his eyes toward her, then back to his scotch and sighs. "No, just a guy trying to drown his sorrows in a glass of booze."

She cocks her head and smiles seductively. "You know, there are better ways to drown your sorrows."

"Oh?" he asks and returns her smile, knowing he shouldn't. "Such as?"

She puts her hand out. "Let me show you."

He looks pointedly at his now empty glass. "I'm, um, not in any shape to drive."

"Sweety, you won't be needing a car for the kind of driving I have in mind."

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He staggers back into the bar, heading unsteadily for the counter, his hands grasping onto the tops of the barstools, pulling himself from one to another. When one slides in his grip, he nearly falls to the floor. He drags himself back to his feet and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other until he can find someone to call him a cab to take him home to sleep off this entire miserable night.

"Good Lord, Doc, what happened to you?" Hands grip his shoulder and back, holding him up and steering him toward the back of the room. "Let's get you somewhere where you can lie down."

It's the bartender, still here. He couldn't have been gone long then, if it's still the same night and it must be because he doesn't remember seeing any daylight since he walked into this bar the first time. "Need . . . cab," he manages to say, but the words stick in his throat and his body shakes with the overpowering urge to vomit. He puts a hand to his mouth as he heaves the contents of his stomach onto his hand, his shoes, his pants, his shirt, the floor. It feels good and terrible at the same time and he's too wasted even to feel embarrassed.

"Ah shit," the bartender says. "You're really messed up. Come on." The grip is tighter, the movement quicker, as he's half pulled and half dragged across the room.

"Sorry," he mumbles, wiping a hand across his mouth which seems to put more residue on his face than it takes off. The bartender almost carries him past empty tables and chairs, into a small room and onto a vinyl couch; it's the color of puke green, cold to the touch and hard, but he lays down because it's his only hope of getting the room and his stomach to stop spinning.

The smell of the vomit on his clothing gags him and again bile forces itself up from his stomach and out of his mouth. He's lying on his back and some of it is sucked back into his throat, which only makes him retch harder. He turns onto his side and heaves onto the floor.

Hands fumble in his pockets. "Don't tell me the bitch stole your phone," the bartender says. "Oh, good, here it is."

Wilson watches him speak into his cell phone, too dazed to follow the words. Someone is shaking him. "You gotta stay with me, gotta stay awake."

He opens his eyes, carefully, and sees a blurry figure standing over him. "Kay," he says before squeezing his lids closed again.

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He opens his eyes to find the devil staring at him. Okay, not the devil. House. Close enough. His head hurts, just opening his eyes hurts. He closes them.

"Wakey, wakey," House says.

The noise of House's voice makes him cringe and he turns into the pillow. It smells somewhat antiseptic. No beeping noises means he's not in the hospital and the pillowcase doesn't smell like House, so he must be at his hotel. He tries to remember how he got here, but it's way too hard. House is here, so it must be something to do with House.

What time is it? What day is it? He tries to form the questions but his throat seems to have gauze in it and his head is on fire.

Nonetheless, House seems to understand him. "Ten in the morning, sport," he says.

Shit! He's supposed to do grand rounds at 11 with Jonathan Munoz, a world-renown specialist in lung cancer. He tries to get out of bed and ends up tangling himself in the sheets. He looks down and sees he's wearing only his boxers and T-shirt. Someone took off his vomit-infested clothes and he's got a pretty good idea who.

"Whoa there!" House says, pressing him back onto the bed.

He tries to convey the urgency of his need to rise, but sitting up makes his head spin with pain and the combination is enough to force him back onto the pillow.

"Okay, wonder boy. Stay there and I'll get you some coffee and aspirin," House says.

Wilson tries to remember something, anything about what happened after he left the bar. Just trying to think makes his head hurt, a lot, and he gives up. He hasn't been this drunk or this sick from being drunk in a long, long time.

House returns with a cup and places it on the bedside table then helps him into a sitting position. He wants to throw up.

"Deep, easy breaths," House urges, but the voice is flat.

He does what he's told, focusing on simply breathing in and out, not letting his mind wander to anything beyond that simple task. After about a minute, House hands him the coffee.

It's hot, it burns his throat, and it's not very good. "What happened?" he asks while taking a sip.

"Kinda hoping you'd tell me."

The last thing he wants to do is explain the last 24 hours to House. "I got drunk," he says.

"No kidding."

"You brought me home?" 

"I brought you here," House replies, waving at the hotel room with the implication it's definitely not a home.

He tells House to leave him alone, let him sleep it off.

"Who's Candy?" House asks.

Wilson groans. How did House find out about her? "A girl I met in the bar."

"Did you do her?"

He tries to remember and can't. Thinks about looking in his boxers and decides against it. Thinks harder. He left the bar with her, came back without her. That must mean. . . shit. House is watching him.

"You did use a condom," House half asks and half says.

Did he? Certainly he would but he can't remember doing it. He isn't even sure he had sex with her but he must have. Shit, he knows better than to do it with a stranger without protection.

"I called Cuddy and told her you were sick," House is saying. "So, you've got the day to sleep it off." He tosses a small object onto the bed. "Get a blood test," he says and walks out the door.

Wilson picks up the item House has thrown. It's a condom, still sealed in its wrapping. And he doesn't need to check his wallet to know it's the one he usually keeps there.


	2. Anger

**Note: This part contains significant foul language. You've been warned!**

Part 2 – _Anger_

One day, a dozen cups of coffee, and an equal number of aspirin later, he's in the clinic, halfway through the second hour of a three-hour shift. Unlike House, he likes clinic duty, in part because the patients typically are healthy and he probably won't have to tell them they're going to die.

"Fatigue, Room 2," Nurse Brenda says, handing him a chart.

Wilson thinks that he's probably more fatigued right now than any patient but dutifully heads to the designated room where he finds a scrawny teenage girl with mild acne sitting on the exam table, twisting her stringy blonde hair and a large woman who's obviously her mother hovering nearby. He's barely into the room, when the mother pounces.

"'Bout time we see a doctor," she nearly shouts. "We've been waiting over an hour; it's ridiculous how long they make you wait here. What if she was dying? You are actually a doctor, aren't you?" she asks without pausing to take a breath. "Last time, we got some nurse" – she almost spits out the words – "when we should have seen a doctor."

Wilson carefully steps around her and gives both women his most charming smile even as he's silently cursing Nurse Brenda for thrusting this miserable person on him on a day when he feels like crap. "I'm Dr. Wilson." He checks the patient's name on the chart – Caroline West – and asks about her symptoms.

"I just get tired sometimes," Caroline replies in a voice that even sounds tired. "It's no big deal."

"You get tired all of the time," he mother starts and Wilson tries to listen patiently to the lengthy diatribe from the mother that's not helpful and get answers from Caroline that might be. He pinches the bridge of his nose and considers how he can tactfully get the mother out of the exam room. He gives up on the idea and proceeds with his examination.

He turns from checking Caroline's throat to find her mother peering over his shoulder. "It would help a lot, Ms. West," he says in his most patient voice, "if you had a seat over there." He points to the chair on the far side of the room.

She grudgingly obeys, albeit not without more complaining. Within seconds, though, she's scooting the chair closer and closer to the exam table. "Why are you touching her there?" the mother asks.

For goodness sake, he's only feeling the nodes under the girl's arm. "Her lymph glands," he explains tightly. "Checking for swelling."

"Lymph glands. I know what that means. That means cancer!" she shrieks, rising from the chair, nearly toppling it over. "You think my Caroline has cancer!"

"No," he tries to answer over her cries. "I don't think she has cancer. I think she has mononucleosis. I'll need to run a blood test to confirm--"

"The kissing disease? She doesn't have that. She's never kissed anyone ever in her life, have you Caroline? She has cancer; that's why you're doing the blood tests, isn't it? Because she has cancer. You just don't want to tell me the truth."

"Ma'am," he's struggling to keep his composure. "I'm certain that your daughter doesn't have cancer. The blood test will confirm the mono—"

"What do you know? You're just some young doctor stuck working in this stupid clinic. I want her to see a specialist."

God, his head hurts, and he cracks. "Ms. West, I am a specialist. Not only that, I'm an oncologist, a cancer specialist." He feels himself cracking and struggles to keep his voice calm but it rises, rises to an unhealthy pitch. "Not only that, I'm head of the oncology department at this very hospital. And, as an oncologist, I'm telling you that your daughter doesn't have cancer. She has mononucleosis."

He doesn't know why he's cracked. It's never happened to him before, never in Clinic, never with the toughest cancer case, not even with dying patients. And it's happening with stupid Ms. West and he finds himself powerless to stop it.

"An oncologist," she's wailing. "Oh God, we're seeing an oncologist. She has cancer; my baby has cancer. I just knew it . . . ."

He tries one more time, ends up shouting, gives up and storms of the room, out of the Clinic, past the stares of the nurses and staff who aren't used to hearing Dr. Wilson raise his voice – ever – back to his office to await the patient complaint that he knows is coming.

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Fuck! He typically doesn't swear and those few times he does, it's usually when he's with House and he does it because that's the way they sometimes communicate with each other, especially if they've had one too many beers. Today, he's swearing entirely for himself and at himself and he means every word. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

As if the blowup in the clinic wasn't enough, House has fucking brain cancer. Brain cancer. A tumor, who knows how large, growing in his brain for who knows how long doing who knows how much damage.

And House, knowing he has brain cancer, decides that the last person he will tell is James fucking Wilson, Doctor of Medicine, board certified in medical oncology and surgical oncology, Head of Oncology at PPTH and, at least in some strange universe, supposedly his best friend. But instead of telling him, House calls Mass General so he can be treated by Dr. John Fucking Coopersmith and whatever other oncologists House thinks are obviously more qualified than he is to deal with his brain cancer. Fuck.

Wilson tries to decide which he should feel better about – that his closest colleague doesn't trust him enough as a physician to even consult him about a life-threatening disease that just so happens to be his fucking specialty. Or, that his friend – at least in theory, his best friend – of over a decade doesn't trust him enough to tell him that he's got cancer.

So, like the pathetic moron his is, he has to go to House to beg him to let him be his doctor. Beg to review his file, beg to be part of his life. And what does House do? Tells him it's nothing – like brain cancer is fucking nothing. And, no, he won't let him be his doctor, won't even let him see the scans, won't talk to him, won't let him help.

He knows what he's supposed to do, what Cuddy at least expects him to do and probably what the kids expect him to do. He's supposed to call in favors, get hold of House's records, do a consult, double check the diagnosis, make sure he gets the best treatment, hold his hand every step of the way. Yeah, that's what he's supposed to do because that's what he always does. Good old Wilson. But this time, he's not fucking doing it.

His entire fucking life has been spent supporting House. He was there after the infarction. When Stacy couldn't take it any more, when she couldn't deal with the desperate, pain-ridden cripple that she'd helped create and that her once vibrant partner had become, trusty Wilson jumped in to pick up the shattered pieces of House's miserable existence.

When the pain got worse, when House couldn't even get out of bed, couldn't spend an hour in the fucking office, couldn't walk, couldn't move, he's the one who sat with House, cajoled him, berated him, forced him to get his lazy ass out of bed and into the office. When Cuddy and the rest turned their back on House's pain, he's the one who wrote the scrips for Vicodin so House could keep his fucking leg, could function, could work. He's the one who found the first patients that he knew would tweak House's interest to get him back to work, back to using his mind and forgetting for brief moments about his wreck of a body.

And, when Tritter came calling, he's the one who lied over and over about those fucking forged prescriptions to save House's job – and his ass. And then, when House almost maimed a small girl, punched Chase in the nose, and rained destruction down on an entire hospital, he was the one who finally stopped it to try to get House the help he so desperately needed.

He's always done it willingly, almost without thinking, because . . . well, because it's what he does. House is his friend, House needs him. He doesn't ask for much in return because he knows House isn't capable of giving much. But having House reject him as a doctor and a friend – and in such a public way – is humiliating. Fucking humiliating. What must Chase and Foreman and Cameron think? What must Cuddy think when House's only confidant – not to mention Head of Oncology – is fucking clueless about the fact that his best friend has cancer?

Fuck, if that's the way House wants it, two can play that game. He no longer fucking cares. Let House fucking go to Mass General or anywhere else he wants. Let him confide in Cuddy or his rat or his bottle of beer. He doesn't fucking care anymore.

Except he does.


	3. Bargaining

Part 3 – _Bargaining_

He's talking to the Wilsons, trying his hardest not to take his anger and frustration out on them. They think it's funny, cute, how they have the same last name that he does. Until _Doctor_ Wilson tells them that their ten-year-old daughter who's been tired a lot lately has leukemia, not anemia. Then, the whole thing's not so funny.

He specialized in pediatric oncology because he likes kids and because there's not much better in medicine, in his view, than making a really sick kid well again. And kids like him, even when they're throwing up, losing their hair, in pain, dying. Even parents like him, except for moments like this, when he's the one who has to tell them the truth, which isn't very pleasant at all.

He's seen every reaction to the news. Parents who deny; those who take it stoically; those who break down; and the occasional few who are moved to physical violence.

"Is she going to die?" the Wilsons ask, currently in the stoic camp with a bit of weepiness.

This will be a tough case to manage, Wilson knows. The girl's white count looks like crap. The one thing he won't do is give false hope. There are many treatments, he says, mentioning those with which he's had good success, as if they know anything about what he's saying. He's cautiously optimistic – what a great turn of phrase – giving hope but keeping his options open in case things turn out badly.

He spends a few more minutes orienting them to reality – time in the hospital, chemo, potential side effects. They nod, pretend to understand, and Wilson knows he'll have to go over everything with them again many times. Finally, he gives them his most sympathetic smile and ushers them out of the office to begin their long journey of trying to deal with this nightmare.

At least House will be spared that nightmare. Turns out House doesn't have cancer after all. Faked cancer to get brain implants to ease his pain – or something like that. Even now, Wilson's not sure he understands it but, then again, he never fully understands House.

He likes to think this is why House didn't consult him about the cancer, because House knows he would have figured out the patient wasn't House and the diagnosis wasn't cancer. He likes to think that, but isn't sure.

And when he tries to make peace with House, mentions the friends who care about him, House responds by saying they're all boring. All of them, which obviously includes him. James Wilson, Bore Wonder. Maybe House doesn't mean it, maybe it's another defense mechanism to hide his depression over his pain and lack of friends, to hide his humiliation at having been caught on the fake cancer thing, but he said it and it hurt. And House doesn't seem to care that it hurt or how much.

He coughs, hard, and hopes it's not a cold coming on. It's late and he should get home and get some dinner.

Maybe he should stop prescribing for House, maybe trying to be his doctor and his friend at the same time is making him crappy at both. And he wonders if he needs to be House's doctor more than House needs him to be. But he's not sure who else could be House's doctor and he sure as hell doesn't know who else would be House's friend.

He looks through the balcony doors to see if House is still there, see if maybe House will take him up on the invitation to have "pizza with a friend." Lights are out. He's on his own for dinner. He thinks about going back to that hotel room with the perfectly equipped kitchenette so that he can cook a perfectly prepared dinner and then eat it all by himself and, instead, decides to stop for Chinese and eat that alone. He sighs. James Wilson, PPTH's Mr. Popular, doesn't even have a friend with whom to share a lousy dinner.

On his way out to his recently washed, waxed and perfectly boring Volvo S80, he stops by the lab to see if the results of his blood tests are back. He's drawn his own blood and submitted it under the name of Evan James; the hospital's so big that no one will notice. Tomorrow, he's told. Shit. It would serve him right to get an STD as a punishment for his monumental stupidity in having sex with Candy. He thanks the lab tech because that's what Dr. Wilson always does, grabs his briefcase and heads for the door.

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The next day, finally, starts out on a positive note. One of his pediatric patients goes home in full remission. Wilson's hopeful the kid won't be back, but he's learned not to make those promises to himself and especially not to the patient. A young woman with Stage 3A lung cancer has another round of clean scans. That means 18 months cancer free for a patient he was sure wouldn't make it eight. The odds of five-year survival are only 20, but Wilson's getting more confident she's going to make it.

He picks up his sandwich, takes a bite, coughs, spits up what he's tried to swallow and decides maybe he's not hungry after all.

He finishes writing a consult on a patient who, thankfully, doesn't have breast cancer. The exam and mammogram had been inconclusive so he'd ordered the ultrasound and biopsy. Negative. Come back in a year. He scrawls his signature on the consult sheet with a small grin that quickly disappears. He has three more consults this afternoon and is pretty sure at least two of them aren't going to have such happy endings.

Halfway through review of the first chart, he reaches for his bottle of water. After only a sip, he can't seem to clear his throat. Trying harder only starts him coughing. He's been coughing and having trouble swallowing for almost a day and that's not good. The really annoying thing about having a cough and being a doctor is that it's tough to listen to your own lungs. He should climb across the wall and have House do it, but decides against it for several reasons and, instead, calls up the latest bloodwork on one of his consults.

He's nearly finished reviewing the second chart when House walks into his office without knocking, as usual.

"You haven't eaten your lunch," House declares, staring down at his uneaten sandwich, half of which is still in its cafeteria wrapper.

"Makes it easier for you to steal it," he replies, waving a hand that invites House to take it.

"Since when don't you eat your lunch?"

He says he simply hasn't finished. House points out that he bought the lunch nearly two hours ago, which is true and Wilson wonders how House knows this.

"Maybe I'm not hungry."

House squints as he seems to consider this explanation. "Take a bite of your sandwich," he says, pointing at it with his cane.

His eyes have the look they get when he thinks he's onto something and Wilson suspects House has found out about his symptoms, which House seems to do with any that interest him and none that don't. He again tells House that he's not hungry. They go back and forth until he sighs heavily, picks up the damn sandwich and bites off a small piece because it's the only way he'll get House to stop pestering him so he can finish reviewing the charts in time for his consults. He holds the bite in his mouth, pretty certain of what will happen if he tries to swallow.

House has noticed. "Swallow it," he says.

He tries to force it down, but it won't go. It gets stuck in his throat and he starts gagging, retching, trying to force it back up. He forces himself to cough harder, again and again until finally, mercifully, he's able to expel the tiny piece of bread and turkey. He drops back into his chair, breathing heavily with effort and relief.

"Shit," House says, staring at him with an expression of pity and disgust.

This coughing episode is his worst yet and is scary. He leans forward on his desk and concentrates on breathing normally again. Out of the corner of his eye, there's movement, then he feels the back of his shirt pulled out of his waistband.

"Chase," he sputters. He starts to tell House that Chase is supposed to stop by to check him over even as he realizes that Chase is probably the very person who told House about his symptoms. He reaches behind his back to tuck his shirt back into place.

House pushes away his hands. "Breathe."

The metal stethoscope that House must have taken from Wilson's lab coat is cool against his back. "House . . ."

"Breathe, dammit."

He breathes, deep breaths, or at least as deep as he can make them. Once, twice. The third turns into a coughing fit. House stops him at four and jerks his shirt back down.

"You idiot," he says. House picks up the phone and calls Cuddy, threatens whomever answers if they don't get her on the line in thirty seconds.

Wilson starts counting the seconds and is up to eighteen when he hears Cuddy telling House this had better be important and wonders what donor meeting House has interrupted. There's talk about aspiration pneumonia and admission and he knows he should protest, but right now he feels like crap and doesn't have the energy to fight what he knows will be a losing battle.

House hangs up the phone and says, "Do you want to walk down to admitting, or should I get you a wheelchair?"


	4. Depression

Part 4 – _Depression_

Wilson decides that there's little in life more degrading than being a patient, other than being a patient in the hospital where you work and having your best friend who also happens to be Greg House as your attending physician, especially when you don't want him to be but don't have the guts to do anything about it.

He's dressed in a patient gown, which he thinks may be the single most humiliating item of apparel anyone has ever worn. The gowns all have the same quasi-detergent smell from having been washed too many times in harsh cleaners. They're just short enough to give nurses access to every muscle and vein in your body while not covering anything you might want covered.

They've put an IV in his hand, a pulsox meter on his finger, EKG leads on his chest, a blood pressure cuff on his arm and a nasal cannula pouring oxygen into his nose. At least they've spared him the indignity of a catheter – for now.

They make him cough sputum for a sample. It hurts and no one thinks to give him anything for the pain.

The whole thing wouldn't be so bad if House were . . . well, House. He can deal with the caustic House, the outrageous House, the determined House, the cynical or frustrated House. But this House is . . . normal, only not normal for House, and Wilson's not sure what to say, what to do, or how to take it. House limps into the room as they're hooking up the antibiotic. Generic for now, he says, until the cultures come back.

Wilson wishes House would yell at him for getting so drunk that he gave himself aspiration pneumonia or make some caustic comments about Candy or give him grief about the hospital gown. But it's as if some normal, professional doctor has taken over the body of Greg House.

"I don't need to be here," Wilson says, hoping to provoke a response.

"Speech pathologist says you do."

Yeah, the speech pathologist, the one who made him swallow little bits of water, applesauce, pudding, ice cream, and other gunk from small spoons, which made him feel like a baby, while she decided what he could safely eat without aspirating more gunk into his lungs. As if the alcohol he downed two days ago wasn't enough.

She's left a little sign over his bed indicating he has to be supervised for all meals, soft diet only, with the proviso that he chews each bite at least five times and swallows it at least twice – to make sure it goes down. He rebels at that, but the alternative is TPN and that's something he wants to avoid at all costs.

"Since when do you listen to speech pathologists?" he asks.

"Since you said I needed to start listening to pain management specialists."

"A speech pathologist isn't a doctor."

"But I am, and I say you need to stay here."

He wonders if House means it or merely wants to make him realize how miserable being a patient can be. He doesn't think so because Cuddy agreed to keep him here and Wilson doesn't think she'd let House do it without good cause.

"Do you need anything?" House asks.

He needs to get the IV out of his arm, needs to be able to eat real food without aspirating, needs to get out of the hospital bed, needs to see his patients, and a laundry list of other needs that invade his thoughts. Needs to have House start acting like House. "No," he says with resignation.

House turns to leave. At the door, he pauses and turns back around. "By the way, the test results are back for your patient, Evan James."

He stares at House in marvel and horror.

"Negative," he says, pulling them from his inside jacket pocket and tossing them onto the bedside table. "You're lucky." He pulls out the bottle of Vicodin, pops one in his mouth, and walks out the door.  
------------------------------------------------------------  
Four days later, he's released from the hospital. Normally, House would insist on taking him home, watching over him like the mother hen he could sometimes be. This time, House isn't even there to sign his discharge papers. House is on his way to Singapore with Cuddy, and he's on his way to his room-in-a-bag at his heartbreak hotel.

He takes a cab, convinces the hotel desk clerk he's still James Wilson and is given a new key card so he can get into his room. It looks the same as it did when he left, only the bed is freshly made and pajamas he'd tossed on the bed are now neatly folded on his pillow.

He checks his voicemail. There are a bunch of get well messages from people who preferred leaving voice mails to actually visiting him. At the end, there's a call from Bonnie, telling him Hector died. She doesn't sound too sad in relaying the news, but it's hard to tell with her. Wilson slumps at the desk. Hector was old for a dog and hadn't lived with him for many years, but it still hurts. He wants to talk to someone about this, about Hector, about loss, but Bonnie didn't ask him to call back and no one else will give a shit.

Well, House might. Or, House would rent _Benji_ and make him sit through entire thing while slurping on a beer and munching on pizza. But House isn't here; House hasn't really been here for weeks now.  
He kicks off his shoes, leaves them in the middle of the floor. Pulls off his tie thinking that only a moron would wear a tie home from the hospital. Thinks about pouring himself a glass of wine then reminds himself that alcohol is part of what got him into this mess in the first place.

He sits down at the desk with the power outlet already installed, turns on his computer and pulls up the page with the checklist he was reviewing before his unplanned stay in the hospital.

Persistent sad, anxious, or empty mood, he reads. The keyword here is persistent. Check, he thinks to himself.

Sleeping too little or too much. Possible – hard to say. Loss of pleasure or interest in activities - just feeling blah or don't care. Check.

Feeling restless or irritable or just being crabby, if it isn't typical for you to feel this way. Check.

Fatigue or loss of energy, running out of energy even when the task is not physically or mentally challenging. Check.

Feeling guilty, hopeless, or worthless. Check, check, check.

He reads the next line of the on-line article and picks up the phone.  
------------------------------------------------------------------  
The room is designed to look cozy, inviting and non-threatening. The warm, soothing colors, deep, plush chairs, rich woods, and subtle lighting are all intended to relax the room's inhabitants. Even so, Wilson feels uncomfortable, unwelcome, and threatened. And knows that's probably not healthy.  
"Dr. Wilson." Dr. John Spencer, board certified in psychiatry and an expert in treating depression in cancer patients, reaches out to shake his hand. Spencer himself is dressed to inspire confidence and trust without invoking fear. Wool slacks, tasseled loafers, collared shirt, lightweight sweater with earthtone colors. For his part, Wilson's wearing a freshly pressed grey suit, heavily starched white shirt, and conservative blue tie. Definitely not healthy, Wilson thinks to himself.

"After talking to you on the phone so many times," Spencer continues, "it's good finally to meet you in person." He invites Wilson to sit in one of the very plush comfortable chairs and seats himself in a similar one directly across from him rather than behind his massive desk, which is completely empty other than a single patient chart and a flatscreen monitor.

Wilson starts to relax into the cushions then pushes himself forward so that he's hovering on the edge of the seat.

"So," Spencer says, "I understand you wanted to talk about my speaking at your upcoming oncology conference. About depression."

He nods, more than willing for Spencer to carry this conversation.

"Now, would that be about depression in cancer patients or their doctors?" Spencer asks seriously, although Wilson detects the slightest twinkle in his eyes.

Gotcha. For a moment, Wilson stares at his hands, clasped between his knees. Finally, he forces himself to meet the psychiatrist's eyes. "I'm afraid I lied to your receptionist when I told her this would be a social visit."

"Really?" Spencer sounds anything but surprised.

"I--, I want to see you as a patient."

Spencer steeples his hands, peering at Wilson over them. "Okay," he says slowly. "I'm fine with that. It's not as uncommon as you might think, oncologists needing to talk to someone. So, what's on your mind?"

"You don't want to start with my life story, my childhood, all that?"

"Only if you want me to. There's plenty of time to get into that, if it's even necessary. I'd prefer to start with what brings you here today."

Wilson takes a deep breath, knows that once he opens his mouth, once he shares his secret, there's no going back.

"I have a friend," he says. "I think he's depressed."

_End_


End file.
